


The Same Old Fears

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10x02, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom!Cas, Dream Sex, Dreams, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Oral Sex, Reichenbach, Sam gets a little toppy, Season 10 Spoilers, Top!Sam, and I'd rather not serve up anything by surprise, but Cas likes it, but it does exist, but yet again, especially if someone really doesn't want to see it, gratuitous use of the word fuck, it does exist, so I thought I'd mention it, the Dean/Crowley is a passing sort of thing, the Dean/Other is even more passing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2781731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The door in the center is made of solid, sturdy wood, painted over lightly with a gunmetal hue. It reminds him of the Men of Letters' bunker, and of Winchesters, and sure enough when he turns the knob a familiar smile greets him from the desk.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Same Old Fears

**Author's Note:**

> You'll find, as you read, that this fits into very specific spots in 10x02. Especially if you squint.
> 
> Title and inline lyrics from Pink Floyd's _Wish You Were Here_.

Castiel is tired.

The stolen grace wanes with every breath he draws into his lungs, ragged and weary. His eyelids droop, he falls asleep at the wheel of his enormous stolen car and he wakes to a blaring horn, and Hannah's sharp gasp. Wrenching the wheel, he guides them as best he can into a ditch. He's still so sedated, groggy and slow. Hannah calls for a tow truck. Castiel watches her, standing there in her slim vessel with those odd cuffs on her pants. She's earnest, young, and he remembers when he was that way.

Hannah doesn't understand the friendly mechanic's joke, and Castiel is too tired to explain. He shakes his head, leaning so heavily on the tow truck's door that for one forgetful second he fears he'll tear it from its hinges.

It's been awhile since he's had that kind of strength.

The mechanic's couch is a warm color, inviting, and before Castiel can properly thank her he is sitting, stretching out, snuggling in. There are faint scents; cheap detergent and vanilla, a hint of barbeque smoke. All signs of an active human household. Love and comfort.

Castiel falls asleep before he's registered having done so.

It happens all too easily these days, as evidenced by the wreck, but he forgets. Every time, he forgets, until he's walking down the familiar beige hallway and considering each door.

The first time he experienced human dreaming for himself, after the fall, he was confused. Eventually, he pieced it together – the hallway he finds himself in is a portal to the subconscious. The doors are all directions the dreamer can choose to take, and behind each is more doors, more fantastical in size and shape, until the choices run out and the dreamer is left with whatever their choices have wrought.

When Castiel became curious enough to ask, he was told that every hallway looks different, and no two doors are the same. The number of choices before the dream resolves can vary by person, energy level, and the intensity of their focus. Sometimes, Castiel finds himself wandering endlessly from door to door, none of them opening to anything but other doors. Sometimes, his heart knows what he wants better than his mind, and the first or second choice is the one he needs.

This is one of those latter times.

The first door he chooses is rough-hewn wood overlaid with wrought iron; a beautiful, protective piece. Within are three new doors. The one on the left is some kind of opaque, heavy plastic, and on the right is an artistic piece set with delicate stained glass. The door in the center is made of solid, sturdy wood, painted over lightly with a gunmetal hue. It reminds him of the Men of Letters' bunker, and of Winchesters, and sure enough when he turns the knob a familiar smile greets him from the desk.

In this place, Sam looks much more healthy than he did the last time Castiel saw him, his hazel eyes no longer as haunted or wary. He's sitting in an antique swivel chair at his desk, and when he sees Castiel he swings around and up to bound over and sweep the angel into a bone-crushing hug.

He murmurs, "Cas. How have you been?" into Castiel's hair, but Castiel is sinking into Sam's arms and for the moment, cannot speak.

Music is playing softly from the laptop on the desk, a song Castiel would swear he's heard before:

_so..._  
_so you think you can tell_  
_heaven from hell?_  
_blue skies from pain?_

Sam pulls him back, holds him at arm's length and beams down at him. The smile becomes smaller and warmer the longer he looks. "Cas," he says again, more softly. "You needed to sleep, huh?"

_can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?_

Castiel nods wearily. "It has become more and more difficult to maintain... everything," he says, frustrated when he realizes it's true. Not just _this body_ anymore, or _this level of energy_ , no. His very _essence_ aches. He's run down in ways he has never felt, not in all of his existence.

Letting go of Castiel's arms with a solid clap to one of them, Sam indicates the room. "Make yourself comfortable. I'm just finishing up."

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Castiel leans forward to peer curiously at the laptop screen. On it rotates a wire frame woman, her long hair patchy and covered with sample swatches. She's barely a line drawing yet, but Castiel recognizes her face. He's seen her in Sam's dreams before.

"That's... Jess," he says stupidly, unable to control the motion of his lips and tongue. He bites at them.

Sam just chuckles sadly. "Yeah... I'm having a hard time getting her hair right. The memory's fading. I can't remember if it was closer to #d4b780, or a little more #d6b887..." He stares down at the screen, vague and fond and not a little sad, and Castiel stares at him.

This is Sam's dream. In his dreams, Sam rebuilds his happiness, and somehow Castiel has stumbled in.

He shouldn't be here. He's intruding. Lurching up, he moves to leave.

"Stay," Sam says, so quietly that in the real world, Castiel could have missed it. Castiel glances at him furtively. "I'm alone in here these days," Sam says, "in here, and out there. And this isn't --" He scrubs a hand through his long hair in frustration, looking briefly down at the screen.

When he looks back up at Castiel, the hope in his eyes is blinding.

"Stay," Sam says.

Castiel draws in a breath, long and cleansing, and nods.

"I've missed you," Sam says, reaching for a bottle Castiel didn't see behind the laptop. Sam unscrews the top, takes a swig, and grimaces. "Things have been, well, pretty nuts since you left. Dean --"

"I know," Castiel interrupts. "After you told me, I realized I'd felt it happen." He'd been in denial when he felt the soul of Dean Winchester became so corrupted that it blackened. Castiel felt it just the same as if that soul lay beneath his palm like it had all those years ago, in the pit. The phone call from Sam was a physical blow, reality stepping in. Dean Winchester is not dead, but he is _lost_.

"He's not unreachable, Cas," Sam argues. He sounds desperate. Castiel looks at him, and Sam's face falls. _He knows me too well,_ Castiel thinks. _He can read this face without any effort at all_.

Aloud, he says, "We won't know for sure until we've found him. Do you have any leads?"

"I --" Sam's face clouds over briefly. "I do."

"Good." Castiel struggles once more to his feet. "I should wake up, I should be able to reach you within the day --"

"Cas, no," Sam says. "You need to rest. Hey," he says in reproach when Castiel fixes him with a glare, "if even your dream self looks this worn out, trust me. You need this. Dean --" He sighs. "Dean will keep."

With a rustle of cloth and a creak of his chair, Sam leans forward and offers Castiel the bottle of liquor. "Nightcap?" he asks.

"Yes," Castiel says. He surprises himself, accepting the bottle and tossing back a swig. It burns, with a faint aftertaste of oak. Then he shrugs out of his coat. He's still tired. This is his dream, he's asleep, and he's about to sleep again. He wonders briefly whether there will be another hallway, with different doors. A different set of choices.

He's lying down, sliding beneath the neat covers. His subconscious has decided for him.

From the desk, Sam glances over and smiles. He's already back to work on his program, and yet another shade of gold. "Go ahead," he says. "I'll be up awhile yet. You won't be alone."

Castiel thinks he may be smiling, warm and drowsy. He sleeps.

He doesn't dream within the dream, or if he does he can't remember having done so. He wakes, as it were, to darkness and a warm body seeking comfort against his. Sam's arms tangle around him, a leg between his legs. "This okay?" Sam asks, his voice husky and soft.

Castiel hums in lieu of words. Everything is fogged with sleep. The room is dark, and smells of age and wisdom. There were a great many books in this room, once. Now their scent is overlaid with Sam, and the freshness of outdoors that he brings in with him. Castiel can even smell Dean from here, his scent intermingled with his brother's, a vital essence in this imagined existence.

 _None of this is real_ , he reminds himself. _I'm dreaming_.

That in itself is a novel concept. He feels Sam's arms around him, the comfort and warmth of the bed, the languor of his limbs and stillness of his mind. All of it a product of his imagination, a formerly human concept that now applies to this new creature he's become.

Sam nuzzles into the nape of his neck, lips moving against Castiel's skin. "You're thinking too hard," he murmurs. "I can hear the gears turning in that celestial wavelength you've got for a mind."

"Technically, that term describes all of --"

"Cas," Sam laughs against his skin. "Just relax."

"How do I relax when you are," Castiel says, his tone growing darker as he squirms, "touching me?"

"Just let go," Sam whispers. "We're safe here."

On impulse, Castiel moves to roll over. He gets tangled in Sam, who laughs quietly as he tries to facilitate the move. When he's situated, Castiel discovers they're too close, his nose brushing Sam's cheek, but there's nothing wrong with that. Sam doesn't seem to think so either. There's a stirring against Castiel's thigh.

"Sorry," Sam says, _sotto voce_ , even as his hips roll in the barest of touches closer.

"It's fine," Castiel whispers. Each of Sam's pupils are deep pits into which all light falls, and Castiel is drawn into them. He wraps himself in the darkness and his eyelids flutter shut.

When Sam kisses him, Castiel kisses back.

Sam's lips are warm, coaxing, his tongue a hot softness petting at Castiel's lips. Castiel opens his mouth and lets their tongues tangle, blindly fumbling slow and searching at Sam's shirt. His fingertips slide and catch over Sam's skin, the jut of a hip, the scant softness of his belly, and Sam's breath catches, exhales in a quiet moan. His grip tightens around Castiel, holding him close as they kiss, and kiss, and Castiel becomes more and more glad that in dreams, there is no need to breathe. He got used to it, out of necessity, in his time without grace. Nowadays he inhales, exhales, even though it's not strictly necessary. Sam, though, he replaces oxygen, fills Castiel instead with hope, want, and the slow burn of need.

But this is what it remains, in the dark: both their legs sprawled in a tangle, one of Sam's hiked up between so Castiel can rut lazily against his thigh. Sam's own hardness rides the cut of Castiel's hip, Sam's jeans and Castiel's suit pants preventing any true friction. Their arms around each other, lips connected, tongues exploring. The sensual exhale of moans, and the soft sounds of kissing.

They part with a quiet snick and slip of saliva. "Cas," Sam breathes, aroused but heavy with sleep.

Castiel nuzzles Sam's nose gently with his own. _Sleep_ , he thinks loudly, no energy for words, as he falls into slumber himself.

This time, he dreams of Dean.

The man is sitting up in a bed that's seen better days, bare from the waist up and the rest of him covered in blankets. His tattoo is stark against his pale skin. His eyes are, for the moment, green -- he's staring across at the other bed in the room, worrying his lower lip.

The other bed is occupied by a bundled form, on the pillow a dark bearded head that Castiel is surprised to find he recognizes.

"Crowley," Dean says, low but loud enough, "wake the fuck up."

A grumble emanates, becoming louder and more pronounced as the demon king stirs, and squints across the room.

"What is the bloody matter with you?" Crowley grates. "If we're going to be all hours in that disgusting bar then I need my beauty sleep, you wanksucking little --"

"I can't do this anymore," Dean interrupts.

Crowley's irritation doesn't vanish, but it smooths over as he dons his salesman's mantle. "Oh?" he prods, almost sweetly.

Watching from slightly above, Castiel shudders. He has no doubt that this is real. He knew Dean was alive just as surely as he felt the corruption of Dean's soul, but to be confronted with evidence not only supporting that but other, darker theories --

"I'm done," Dean says, and with his words he cements the decision for himself. He throws the covers back. Of course, he's not wearing a stitch. Castiel and Crowley both look to the same location, though Castiel glances away with an internal flush. Crowley just smirks, and keeps looking.

Dean purses his lips. "You can keep your fucking smack,” he says, rubbing absently at the scar of the Mark, “feeding this bullshit with losers and their hooker wives. I don't want my eyes turning black again. Feels like --" He shudders. "Nah. No more." He casts about for, Castiel assumes, his pants.

Crowley slides out of his own bed, covers dropping to reveal his own nudity. He crosses the floor to Dean like a snake. "Dean, come back to bed," he purrs.

Dean frowns, slightly disgusted. "I told you, that was a one time thing. Those guys were fucking hot and I was wasted, high on this thing --" He smacks the Mark with the backs of his fingers. "You can't honestly expect me to do that again."

"Oh, but I can," Crowley says, and as cajoling as it sounds, Castiel hears him as speaking plainly. Stating facts. "You belong to me, Dean." He's on Dean's side of the bed, now, standing a mere foot or two from Dean, who is still naked and looks uncomfortably pinned. "And you know what?"

And because he is Dean Winchester, insufferable and foolhardy -- and Castiel loves him dearly for it -- Dean sticks out his chin and challenges, "What?"

Quick as any striking viper, Crowley grabs Dean's arm and yanks him forward, gripping so tightly that Dean's skin whitens, the Mark right up to Crowley's lips. "We howl at that moon _together_ ," he hisses, and bites down on the Mark.

Dean throws his head back and cries out, a hungry wail. Castiel has never heard such a sound from Dean's lips and wishes for one fleeting instant that he could wake up. When Dean's head snaps back down, he's panting and his eyes are black.

"Good boy," Crowley purrs. Dean grins, and drops to his knees.

Castiel panics, wrenches side to side to side and wakes up, breathless, in Sam's arms. He's too hot and he wriggles, fighting to get out of the bed, standing up in his own space where he can bend over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath and wishing he hadn't seen what he did.

Sam is there, worried but reassuring. After a few questioning, "Castiel?"s, he simply stands to the side with a grounding hand on Castiel's shoulder until the angel's panic eases and he can stand upright.

"What is it?" Sam asks, worried in the dark.

Castiel pictures the grin beneath Dean's black eyes and says, "Nothing. Just a nightmare."

He lets Sam lead him back to bed, folding in as the little spoon and pulling at Sam's arms until they're tight as a vise around him, but even as Sam's breathing evens out and deepens, Castiel does not sleep again.

He's still awake and staring when Sam stirs, mumbling something unintelligible and burrowing into Castiel's back. Castiel can't help his smile, running his fingertips over the tendons and joints in the back of Sam's hand. It's a strong hand, callused and scarred, thrumming with life. Castiel can feel the thready energies of every atom in the skin he strokes, and in the burr of Sam's voice when he groans. "D'wanna get up," he whines into Castiel's jacket.

"Then don't," Castiel replies with a smile. "Technically, you are still asleep."

"Yeah." Sam chuckles, and rolls on to his back, reaching to turn on the bedside lamp. It illuminates the room and its occupants with a soft, yellowed glow. Castiel rolls the other way around, propping himself on an elbow and looking down at Sam's face. The lines are more pronounced, including those from his pillow, but Sam is still youthful. Still beautiful. He's chuckling. "This whole dream-within-a-dream thing was almost too weird for the movies, let alone real life."

Movies. Castiel searches the information forced upon him by Metatron. "Do you see a spinning top?" he asks.

Sam outright laughs at that. "Right, you're a regular ace with the references, now. Remind me to never challenge you to a game of Trivial Pursuit."

"Win _all_ the triangles," Castiel murmurs, lowering himself to Sam's side while the hunter laughs afresh. He situates his head against Sam's, nudging his shoulder, and reaches over to entwine their fingers. It's a comforting gesture. Sam's chuckles fade, and he sighs.

Gradually, Castiel realizes that music is once again playing, the same song as before. He hums a bar or two, the sound rumbling from his body into Sam's.

_did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?_

"It's stuck in my head," Sam explains. "I turned on the radio the other day, and this was on... Dean never listened to Pink Floyd; well, not often, anyway." He doesn't mention that he was driving when this happened, or that it bothers him to be in a vehicle that isn't the Impala. Castiel can tell, by the tightness around his eyes and the way his jaw jumps, tense for an instant. Sam is so like Dean, but subtly, so subtle most people would miss the ways.

_did you exchange_  
_a walk on part in the war_  
_for a lead role in a cage?_

Castiel hopes he never sees Sam with black eyes. The incongruity alone might widen the fissure within him to a gaping chasm. The first small crack was caused by his hand on the righteous man's shoulder, innocuously enough. Castiel knows it will be that man or his brother who will break him, but he hopes it will not be that particular way. _Please, Father, not like that_.

"Cas," Sam says, and Castiel blinks back to the present. He has no idea how long he was lost in that train of thought, but something on Sam's face leaning over him tells him it was awhile, and that his own expression was tellingly disturbing.

"Don't worry, Sam," Castiel says. "It's nothing."

"It didn't look like nothing," Sam says with a frown. He strokes a finger lightly along Castiel's hairline, across the delicate skin between sideburn and ear. "You know you don't have to worry, you can tell me anything, right?"

Castiel smiles. He can feel it is a tired smile. Sam mirrors it. They both know each other and themselves too well -- it is something, of course, and Castiel will never tell Sam what it is.

So it comes as no surprise to either of them when instead, Castiel draws Sam down into a gentle kiss.

Well, it starts out gentle. Then Sam groans, deep and needy in the rumble from his chest, and Castiel tilts his head, and suddenly they're making out with the sort of desperate passion found in teenage couplings and nights before the world is slated to end.

Sam moves, his hands sliding up into Castiel's hair and down to the buckle of his belt, and Castiel spreads his legs to accommodate Sam's hips when Sam slots in atop him. He bucks under Sam's weight, wanting the heat and friction, but Sam holds his hips just far enough away that there's nothing to rut against. Castiel glowers when Sam chuckles at him, low and full of heat.

"We can do better than that," Sam says, and Castiel wriggles a little at the sound of such arousal in that tone.

His jaw drops when Sam looks at him seriously and says, "I'd like to suck you. Would that be --"

" _Yes_ ," Castiel grinds out, interrupting, and Sam's little laugh is both at his expense and pure joy. Talented fingers finish unfastening his pants -- Castiel hadn't noticed that happening, or maybe time was once again progressing as it was wont to in dreams, erratically -- and Sam is sliding, resituating, breathing his hot breath over Castiel's bare cock.

Castiel twitches all over, clutches at Sam and the bed, and has to look away when Sam's eyes meet his, dark and determined over his flesh. He stares instead at the ceiling, mapping out the vague swirls in the spackle, biting his lip. Sam is still just breathing, so close, not moving forward or away, and Castiel grows so impatient it manifests as an itch in his nethers.

"Sam --" he growls, but gets no further than a choked whine when Sam's hot mouth envelops the head of his cock.

The sounds that fall from him when Sam keeps moving down, down, impossibly down are animalistic, untamed, and Castiel would be embarrassed for himself were he not in total shock. This is fire, and light, and everything the night with April should have been -- and this is just Sam's _mouth_. Sam swirls his tongue each time he plunges down, swirls when he comes back up; down, up again and Castiel has to grab for a handful of Sam's hair. The moan it drags out of Sam crawls right up Castiel's spine.

Too soon, he feels the prickling in his extremities that signifies the end. Too soon, culmination races at him like a meteorite on a collision course and he has to pull Sam up, gasping, saying, "Stop, stop, I'll come,” and Sam just laughs, grasping Castiel's cock right at the base with his clever, damnable fingers.

"But I thought that was the point?" he teases, and Castiel snarls at him. Fingers that won't work properly haul Sam back up for a kiss that's more teeth than anything else.

"I want you," Castiel pants when they wrench apart for air. Sam is flushed, his mouth swollen and red, and Castiel thumbs at the man's lips just to revel in the rush of heat he feels when those lips part and suck his thumb in. "Here, while we still have time. I want to have you," he says again, just so Sam will moan around his thumb. "Please, fuck me."

Sam groans and doubles over, one hand clutching between his legs, Castiel's thumb skipping from his mouth. "God, Cas --" Castiel barely winces at his Father's name. His eyes are fixed on Sam, panting and determined as he says, a bit sheepishly, "That almost wasn't possible. You," he says sternly, jabbing a finger at Castiel, "are too hot for your own damn good."

He sits back on his ankles, revealing his open fly and raging erection that juts obscenely from the opening. He's got a firm grip on the base, the head is swollen and nearly purple, and Castiel feels a small flush of pride. He did that to Sam. Castiel reaches out, gently massaging the soft, sensitive flesh. Sam's helpless groan only makes him braver, makes him wrap his fingers lightly around the length and slide, up and down, so softly that the next noise out of Sam sounds more like a sob.

Castiel glances up at Sam's face. Despite his hair, hanging sleep-messy in waves around his face, his expression is still clearly visible and wavers between hunger and disbelief. He's watching Castiel jack his cock, watching with lips parted and eyes heavy-lidded with lust. His pupils are once again blown wide, forcing the hazel iris into a thin ring around them. Castiel is very fond of the way Sam looks when he's aroused, even more so when Sam raises his eyes and captures Castiel's.

"You want to get fucked?" Sam asks, plain and feral, already rising up on his knees and crowding in closer. Castiel gapes up at him as he says, "You want this cock in your sweet little ass, Castiel?"

This is not a Sam he's familiar with. Oh, Castiel loves and fears him. "Y-yes," he stammers, struggling out of his suit jacket, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. Sam is attacking his pants, throwing the fly wide open then standing in a rush of power and impatience, throwing his own jeans to the floor.

"Get it all off," he orders, gesturing. "I want to see you."

"Sam," Castiel says, awe and lust and reproach.

Sam breaks the spell for just an instant with a cheeky grin. "Strip, Cas," he says, serious but earnest. "Who knows how long we have?"

That lends a new speed to Castiel's limbs, and his clothes join Sam's in a heap on the floor. They stare at each other; Sam's faintly tanned skin and powerful build, all lean hunter's muscle, and Castiel's pale frame, lithe and well-maintained. Castiel bites his lip, dragging his eyes over Sam the way he never has before, and his cock jumps when he realizes Sam is doing the same thing. He grabs at it with a hiss.

Sam smirks like he did when he was soulless. "Lie back and spread 'em," he says. "I bet you're just, _mmph_ , incredibly tight." He bites his lip with a brief, lustful sneer.

Castiel does as he's told.

Dream time again, and he misses Sam moving or coating his fingers with lube, the first one already slick when it circles his furled little hole and slides inside. Castiel's mouth falls slack, his brow furrowing.

"Hmm, like that?" Sam says, intent on where his finger works in, in, and then slowly back out.

"Yes," Castiel gasps. He's never heard his own voice sound so breathy. He fucks his hips back on to Sam's finger without even trying, chasing the feeling of being filled. His hand moves over his cock, slow and ever so lightly, a teasing counterpoint of pleasure. Sam is gentle, so gentle, and Castiel wonders even as he's being slowly overwhelmed with sensation what it would feel like if Sam went faster. If he added another finger. If he --

Sam draws out, slides back in with another finger, and reaches so deep within Castiel that the angel forgets again to breathe, mouth open and eyes unseeing. Deeper those fingers reach, deeper and deeper, and Castiel feels like he needs to go up on his toes to both accommodate and squirm away -- but then the very tip of Sam's finger brushes _something_ within Castiel and he bucks wildly, calling out, "Oh! I, more, _please_ \--"

Sam laughs, a dry little noise of pure sex and satisfaction. "Yeah?" he teases, just barely brushing that spot again.

Castiel is on fire. He's burning up, and the only thing that's both water and tinder on the flame is Sam's finger pulsing on that spot. He realizes he's begging, pleading little " _oh, oh, oh_ " as Sam works but it's just so good and he needs more. Deeper. _More_.

"Sam," he gasps, focusing with effort on Sam's face, "please, just --"

"Just what?" prompts Sam, infuriating and glorious with his finger quite literally on Castiel's button.

Despite the growing fever in his gut, Castiel flushes, looking away. "You know," he mumbles.

"Nuh uh," Sam cajoles. When Castiel still won't look at him, Sam pulls out to the tips of his fingers and toys with Castiel's rim, making the angel groan. "Cas..."

Castiel raises his eyes to meet Sam's, just as the man says, "Tell me what you need," and for emphasis fucks those fingers back in, sliding hard over Castiel's prostate and earning a noise that Castiel didn't know he could make.

"Fuck me!" Castiel cries, wanton and incensed. "You know I need you, Sam, please. You said, you said we don't have time --"

"Yeah," Sam growls, withdrawing his fingers gently, still leaving Castiel gasping. "Yeah, I got you, Cas --" and he's slicking a hand over his cock, lining up, and pushing in so, so slowly.

Castiel inhales as he's filled, and is reminded incongruously of a balloon he once saw, before Sam bottoms out and grates through his teeth, "You all right?"

"Move," Castiel whispers with half of a frantic nod and Sam sighs, swivels his hips and draws out.

"Oh, _Cas_ ," he breathes, and fucks back in.

Castiel's shoulder blades dig in to the sheets as Sam drives him up the bed as he fucks, hard and driving in a steady rhythm, and it reminds Castiel of how it was to fly, and how existential an experience sex can be, that the bed beneath him is sky and in this dream, he can once again soar uninhibited. Sam's hands and his smiles and the little noises he makes under his breath as he puts his head down and works, all of him is transcendental, all of him makes Castiel fly. Castiel doesn't know where to put his hands, he finds Sam's hair and his broad shoulders and the span of his trim waist around which Castiel has wrapped his legs, digging his heels in to urge Sam faster, his cock in deeper. He's so large, in and around Castiel, and a fine sweat builds on his skin that rubs on to Castiel, drips, stands out in a fine sheen that catches the light as Sam moves.

"You are... so beautiful," Castiel manages, breathless.

Sam flushes, and dips his head to capture Castiel's earlobe between his lips. He thrusts, short little pistons of his hips that leave Castiel gasping for air, alternating between clawing at the sheets, at Sam, and losing himself in moaning over and over. The noises fall from his lips so loudly he'd be afraid of someone hearing, even deep within the bunker. But this is dream space, this is safe, so Castiel is as loud as the situation demands. At times, his wordless curses are shrieks so forceful that they echo ever so slightly, jarring the remains of their volume from against the bare walls.

It could be hours or mere minutes, but Castiel will never tire of this, never tire of Sam's relentless pressure, the hoarse gasps that tear into his throat, the way his hair dangles and drips sweat over Castiel as he works. Both Winchester brothers are beautiful, in their own right -- Dean with his bottle green eyes that flash, as quick to temper as to innuendo, his odd bowed saunter and the way he moves during a chase, but Sam. Ah, Sam. He is the untamed stallion to Dean's feisty mare (as apt a description, Castiel is sure, as Dean would ever deny) and it's never been more obvious than right now, as Sam fucks Castiel deep into a mattress that is nothing more than woven synapses and a bit of subconscious recollection. He is still so youthful, even as the years progress, so powerful in the way that he fucks, with so much control and a hint of overeager desire. He is the younger brother, after all, and right now he's all that Castiel needs.

Sam slows his movements to deft little rolls of his hips. "Can we flip you over?" he pants, grinning through the haze of sex and sweat. "I want to try something."

Castiel nods, and enjoys the sensation of being manhandled when Sam slips out and works him around until he's poised on his hands and knees. Sam's hands tug at his hips, pulling him higher and higher until it's an almost uncomfortable position, toes digging into the mattress -- Sam lines up and punches back in, striking so deep that Castiel's groan grates the back of his throat.

From there, it's fast and graceless, a frenzied pumping that tells Castiel this feels as good for Sam as it does for him. He can feel himself squeezing sinfully tight around Sam's cock, can imagine what it must feel like, wrapped in such soft, wet heat. He's reminded again of April, but he shakes it off. A particularly clever twist and tattoo of Sam's hips helps immensely.

Far too soon, he's on the edge of the cliff and peering down into the vast maelstrom of orgasm. "Sam," he gasps, his vocabulary reduced to that one word, the most important word. "Sam!"

"Y-yeah, Cas," Sam replies, strained, fucking into him so hard that his bones reverberate. "I'm -- I'm close, I think I'm, _ungh_ \--"

His cock swells impossibly larger and he slams in and out, harder, harder. Castiel bucks into each thrust, giving as good as he gets, reveling in the smack of their flesh together as they meet, again and again. He clenches, releases, and clenches again, sighing a groan as Sam hiccups behind him and moans through clenched teeth, shaking and pumping his load deep into Castiel.

The noises alone might have been enough to set Castiel over the edge, but Sam's hips are still working in jagged thrusts and Sam gropes blindly for Castiel's cock, twisting his wrist as he jacks the angel roughly, a voiceless plea.

Castiel has no choice but to answer, arms collapsing, chest striking the bed as he comes so violently that he feels a few droplets spatter his face. He rides the high, shaking back on to Sam's spent cock, shivering when Sam utters an over-sensitized shudder of vowels.

They come down from their highs together in fits and starts; moving delicately, they separate, Sam slipping free with a low, hoarse chuckle and falling on his side in the bed. Castiel rolls his face slowly over the linens and eyes Sam with an overwhelmed expression that hopefully conveys the magnitude of what he's feeling. What Sam just made him, _helped_ him to feel.

Sam laughs at him, but it's a kind laugh, and it trails off fondly as Sam brushes Castiel's hair back into some semblance of its usual shape.

"It's about time to wake up," he says as Castiel struggles into a closer, more comfortable position against him.

"Lies," Castiel mumbles into Sam's skin.

Sam hums noncommittally, still stroking Castiel's head.

"This was nice," he says finally, after a silence. Castiel is staring into the hollow beneath Sam's pectoral, and the copper-toned shadows of the room beyond. He agrees, and he doesn't want to move, because this isn't something he's ever had and he knows the nature of dreams. Move when you're happy, and you start to wake up.

He doesn't mention any of that, though, nor does he affirm or deny what Sam said. He sits up, and a rush of vertigo heralds the unraveling of the dream; he looks at Sam three times in three different ways before he can say, "Be careful. I'll be with you soon." _Sooner, if this body and that car can handle the strain_. "If you find Dean before I get there –"

 _Be careful_.

Sam smiles, but it's an emptier smile. Perhaps the dream is breaking apart for him, too. Perhaps... well. Castiel has always known just how connected the Winchester brothers are. Dean becoming, of all things, a _demon_ is a punch to the gut for Sam. Castiel wishes he could fix it with two fingers on Dean's forehead, as he could have in years past. In years past, though, he might simply have run Dean through.

No. Never Dean. Not even when his eyes flickered black.

The dream is breaking up badly now, freeze frames and repeated segments, Castiel struggling to hold on. He grasps at Sam and kisses him, his face, his lips, inhaling his scent.

"Be careful," he whispers, and maybe Sam hears him, and maybe Sam replies --

but doors slam as Castiel is pulled backwards through them, a reverse of his choices almost too quick to perceive. There is a small girl eating cereal on the other end of the couch, there is daylight and an unfamiliar room, and Castiel is awake.

His fingers twitch to remember Sam, but he holds them still against his leg.

He smiles at the girl.

 

*

 

Sam stirs awake in the cab of the stolen truck, his injuries both old and new complaining. He works his jaw around, stares out of the window at the empty lot beside him and wonders just how much of that was real. If he really met with Castiel in a dream, and had... all of that. Sam flushes hot in the chill of the morning, biting a lip already split and sore.

He feels oddly sated, but filled with a longing so intense that it propels him up and out of the truck, where he stands and stretches and watches the sunrise, reliving the sensations before they fade.

All dreams fade over time.

When he turns the key to start the truck, to drive to a bar in a town with an unlikely name, the radio crackles to life.

_how I wish, how I wish you were here..._

 

*

 

Dean sits bolt upright in an unfamiliar bed, inhaling deeply, for an instant convinced he's back at --

but the Mark makes his home, now. He's no longer welcome in, in that other place. He blinks sleepily, considering the fact that he's sandwiched between two young bodies, two more wayward souls. As he blinks, his eyes flood black, and he sinks back into slumber with a wriggle and a slit-lidded smile.

The next time he wakes, he's forgotten that he ever for one instant smelled the scents of his brother and Castiel, so sharp and intertwined that they'd granted him humanity, however brief.

He feels _amazing_.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider leaving kudos/a comment. I really appreciate feedback. ♥


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